Salt spray carried on the wind, stinging the fresh scars that mapped Lynara's face like constellations. they had mostly faded, a thin veneer of mundane glamour hiding them for good.

  "Foundation" they call it nowadays, I believe. Twenty-seven days since her capture. Twenty-seven days of carefully induced weakness, just enough food to keep her functional, not enough to restore her strength. A calculated approach to ensure compliance.

  Probability of immediate escape: three percent. Unacceptable risk with one life remaining.

  The Federation ship bobbed in water, their meeting place a known and old battlefield marked by the presence of a small atoll nearby, two banners planted into it.

  The ship's white sails emblazoned with the golden wings of Simon's Order. The waters here marked the boundary between civilization and barbarism in the eyes of the Federation, a sentiment Lynara found amusing given just a few centuries ago she had witnessed the Federation's ancestors practicing rituals that would make even the current Sverdish raiders go white.

  "Remember our arrangement," Maraco murmured beside her, his voice low enough that only she could hear. The flayed cloak rippled across his shoulders despite the lack of wind, the skin of their father still rejecting its new master. "One wrong move..."

  She felt the phantom pulse of her distant heart, kept in some enchanted box, beating in anxious synchrony with the damaged organ that had partly regrown in her hollow chest.

  "You've made yourself abundantly clear, brother," she whispered. "I will be your perfect envoy."

  His fingers tightened around her arm, bruising. "You will be more than that. You will open the path for our people's vengeance."

  She allowed a flicker of apparent fear to cross her features: a precise calibration of widened eyes and quickened breath. "The Stygian Ritual requires materials I may not be able to acquire. The Federation is vigilant against blood magic."

  "Then be creative. Isn't that what you pride yourself on? Your... adaptability?"

  He didn't know the half of it.

  "Lower the plank!" A voice called from the Federation ship, crisp and commanding.

  The Sverdish guards complied, rough hands shoving Lynara forward. She stumbled, faltering in a way that would suggest weakness without inviting contempt. The balance was delicate; too pathetic and they would despise her, too strong and they would fear her.

  Four knights disembarked, their polished breastplates catching the weak northern sun. The sigils etched into their armor pinged against her magical senses: soul-bound enchantments disguised as decorative flourishes. Amateur work to her ancient eyes, but clever for mortals.

  The knight in front removed his helmet, revealing a face carved from granite: all hard lines and resolute purpose. Dark hair cropped military-short, a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, eyes the color of winter seas. Something in his stance suggested both vigilance and exhaustion.

  Ser Caldus Vertiginieri. Knight Commander of Simon's Order. Thirty-seven years old. Unmarried. Six successful investigations into clergy corruption. Two failed. Information from the diplomatic archives of 1652, the most recently available according to brother dearest, although the Ser Caldus I knew was far more jovial, I wonder how far from his ancestry he is.

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  "I am Ser Caldus Vertiginieri, representing the Order of Simon and the Holy See," he announced, voice carrying across the beach. "I come to escort Lady Anya Brahe to the Federation as agreed upon."

  Right, I am Anya right now, Lynara is dead.

  Maraco stepped forward, every inch the barbarian king the Federation expected. "You have the diplomatic papers?"

  Caldus produced a sealed document. "Signed by Pope Urban himself. Lady Brahe will be treated with all courtesy due her station, provided she adheres to our laws and customs."

  Maraco's eyes flicked to Lynara. "My sister understands her role perfectly." he said, a half smile on his face.

  Sister. The word hung in the air between them.

  "Approach, my lady," Caldus said, his tone precisely neutral.

  Lynara moved forward with calculated hesitance, allowing her steps to falter once more as she crossed onto Federation wood for the first time in over a century. She kept her gaze downcast, the picture of a cowed noble daughter, while her peripheral vision cataloged every detail of the knights' positions, weapons, and the subtle glow of their truth-seeing enchantments.

  "Welcome to the protection of the Federation," Caldus said formally, though his eyes remained cold as they swept over her form. "Are you prepared for the journey to the Holy See?"

  Now came the first test. The Order's armor allowed them to sense emotional states: a crude form of truth detection that Lynara had encountered and defeated countless times before. But with only one life remaining, she needed to be perfect.

  Probability of Unnatural emotional state being detected during travel: 22 percent. Explainable.

  She constructed her response with mathematical precision, layering genuine anxiety over controlled fear, coating both with a thin veneer of hope, all emotions a captive noble daughter might truly feel, emotions she found while digging through her repertoire of experiences.

  A girl scolded for laughing at a funeral, exiled for asking why the Frost Hag demanded infant sacrifices. Let him see your "Fear". Let him think he sees true.

  A memory directly from her host body is more potent than any fabrication.

  "I am prepared, Ser Knight," she said, her voice deliberately small. "Though I confess, I know little of your ways."

  His eyes narrowed fractionally, sensing something, but unable to identify what. Good. Let him think her emotional state merely complex, not fabricated.

  "You'll learn," he replied, motioning for her to board the ship. "The journey will provide ample opportunity for instruction."

  As she passed him, their eyes met briefly. In his, she saw suspicion, coiled like a serpent. In hers, she allowed him to see vulnerability, but just beneath it, a flicker of determination that might suggest a brave noble facing her fate with dignity.

  Let him believe he's glimpsed my nature.

  The ship's crew busied themselves with preparations for departure. Lynara stood at the rail, watching as Maraco and his retinue grew smaller on the shoreline. The puppet-master who thought himself so clever, holding her heart hostage.

  Probability of acquiring replacement blood souls within three months: eighty-seven percent. Probability of turning Caldus Vertiginieri into an unwitting ally: sixty-three percent. Probability of ultimate success: incalculable without additional variables.

  The soul of the warrior-queen, her last remaining active blood soul, whispered strategies of conquest and subjugation behind her eyes. Lynara quieted it with practiced ease. This game would require subtlety, not strength.

  "My lady," Caldus's voice came from behind her. "You should come below deck. The northern winds grow harsh this time of year."

  She turned, allowing genuine surprise to color her features, a small truth.

  "You're concerned for my comfort, Ser Knight?" she asked, voice puzzled.

  "I'm concerned for completing my mission," he replied flatly. "And my mission is to deliver you to the Holy See alive and well."

  A smile touched her lips. Small and hesitant. "Then I thank you for your diligence."

  As she followed him below deck, she noted the way his hand never strayed far from his sword hilt, the way his eyes tracked her movements with the focus of a predator. He didn't trust her:

  Good. Trust was earned slowly, broken quickly, and all the more valuable for both qualities.

  Let him begin with suspicion. It would make his loyalty all the sweeter when she claimed it.

  Not to speak of what comes after. A small smile flickered on and off her face.

  One blood soul remaining. One life standing between her and true death. One chance to rebuild her collection. Starting with him.

  What a thrill.